The Real McCabe
by BlueGnu
Summary: There's only one person Cowley trusts with CI5's computers - and she can't be found.  An action adventure with cutting edge 1970s computer tech, dodgy 3-point-turns, cruelty to small furry animals and gratuitous insults to Swindon. Rated T for violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The head of security was regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, but Holly McCabe was used to that. Most people considered computer specialists to be a strange bunch under any circumstances, but a computer specialist with a name like "Holly" was certainly worth a good long stare. And that was before they saw a level of security clearance that could open some of the most heavily guarded doors in the country. On seeing her pass, the uniformed official back at the gate of ARC Defence had only just stopped himself from saluting.

Peterson, the head of security, was made of stronger stuff. He examined her papers minutely, as if willing them to reveal some discrepancy. He had a deep mistrust of the banks of humming machines in the basement that were supposedly making immensely complex calculations based on the research done within ARC. He was even more unhappy about the vast spools of punched yellow paper tape which allegedly stored all the resulting data. He had no idea how a strip of paper with little holes in could contain any information at all – unless you unrolled the thing and wrote on it. And if he didn't understand it, how could he adequately protect it?

"What exactly is it that you're here to do, Miss McCabe?" he enquired, ignoring the small inner voice that told him he would almost certainly not understand the answer.

"I'm upgrading your data storage," she replied, "transferring everything only floppy disks." Peterson manfully tried to hide his incomprehension but the blank look must have reached his face, because from her briefcase the girl produced a square envelope, about five inches to a side. She waggled it gently in front of him.

"Floppy disks, Mr Peterson. They're the future. One of these can contain as much data as thousands of feet of your paper tape." Holly was used to the sceptical look Peterson gave her. It was the same with any new technology – it took people time to adjust, to accept even if they couldn't understand. Only recently, she had asked a client to send her a copy of a disk that had been causing him problems. A few days later, she received a sheet of paper – he'd put the disk in the photocopier and sent her its picture. He did better with his second attempt, successfully transferring the data onto a new disk and posting it to her. Unfortunately, in order to fit the floppy into the envelope he'd folded it in half. And stapled it to a compliments slip.

Normally these reflections would have prompted a grin as Holly waited for Peterson to complete his checking. Today however, she was impatient to get on with the task ahead. Only when she had passed security, and a uniformed guard had escorted her through a number of locked doors to the computer room in the basement, did she allow herself a small smile of satisfaction. As she set up the equipment she needed to copy the data, the smile remained on her lips – but somehow it never reached her eyes.

* * *

><p>Two miles away, in the damp, windowless bathroom of a semi-derelict flat, the real Holly McCabe was determined not to cry. Under the circumstances she felt it was a negligible distance from shedding a few tears to a fully-fledged meltdown, and she couldn't do that right now. Then again, as she sat with her back to the cold radiator, her right arm hugging her knees to her chest, her left handcuffed to the sturdy pipe that ran along the skirting board, she reflected that maybe a fully-fledged meltdown was exactly what the situation demanded. With the cloying, sweet smell of the chloroform still on her face, she resolved not to give them the satisfaction.<p>

The men who had left her there a few hours or a lifetime ago could not have been more contrasting. The older of the two had politely introduced himself as Mr Jacobs: a grey-faced, grey-suited bank manager of a man, instantly forgettable unless you detected the air of quiet menace that any bank manager would be proud to cultivate. There would be no exceeding of overdrafts in his branch. His "colleague, Mr Kendal," as Jacobs referred to him, was perhaps twenty, wiry and scruffy, and looked about as stable as the economy of a small central African republic.

Jacobs had calmly requested the details of Holly's security clearance at ARC. His polite, conversational manner suggested that the wire cutters with which Kendal was lightly gripping one of her fingers were wholly irrelevant to their discussion. Taking one look at Kendal's narrow, pockmarked face, Holly answered fully and without hesitation. The younger man didn't bother to conceal his disappointment that no persuasion had been required. His eyes never leaving hers, he folded the jaws of the silver cutters back inside their handle and slid the tool lovingly into his jeans pocket, patting the resultant bulge in a wholly unnecessary reminder that they were available whenever needed.

It took little imagination to work out what they would be doing with her unrestricted access to ARC's research data. She hated to think of the value of that information in the wrong hands, but that was not her most pressing concern. In fact, even Kendal and his wire cutters didn't make the very top of the list. Right now, these men needed her in case they ran into an issue requiring further details that only she could supply. But once the data had been stolen, she was no longer of use to them. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Holly McCabe hugged her knees more tightly. She tasted salt on her lips, and realised that in spite of her efforts, the forbidden tears were rolling down her face.

* * *

><p>At 5.30pm in another windowless room, the woman who was not Holly McCabe checked over her shoulder before removing the lining from her briefcase. She attached the floppies she had made to the inside of the lid, carefully smoothed the fabric back into position and closed the case. Transferring all the data they wanted would take another day or two, but as one of ARC's security men courteously escorted her from the premises without even bothering to search her, she saw no reason why that should pose a problem.<p>

* * *

><p>The look that George Cowley gave his secretary would have melted the face of a lesser woman. But after three years of working for the head of CI5, Betty merely raised a polite eyebrow and repeated her unwelcome message.<p>

"I'm sorry, sir – she went to Swindon yesterday morning and she'll be there at least until the end of the week. Something to do with data transfer at ARC Defence."

Cowley was a great believer in computers. He considered it highly likely that in the future, even the larger regional police forces would have one. But when there was a problem with the machines at CI5, Holly McCabe was the only person he trusted to sort it out. It was damned inconvenient for her to be tied up on some other job.

"Ach, data transfer can hardly be urgent. Did you call ARC?" he snapped.

"Of course." Betty kept the reproach from her tone. "I tried to speak to Miss McCabe directly, but apparently she couldn't be disturbed."

"They wouldn't let you speak to her?"

"It was Miss McCabe's request. They sent someone to bring her to the phone but apparently she asked them to take a message."

"Get them back on the line – and put it through to me." The look on Cowley's face as he put on his heavy framed spectacles and reached for the phone did not bode well for anyone who got in his way. It was considerably more thunderous by the time he finally managed to get through to McCabe herself.

"Hello? Who is this?" Even from those few words, Cowley detected a problem. He had met McCabe a couple of times, and spoken on the phone a few more. He was self-aware enough to know that her soft Edinburgh inflections were a tiny part of why he trusted her. His instinct for trouble flared into life.

"Is that Holly McCabe?"

"Yes, that's me," said a voice with flat London vowels. "What do you want?"

"I was wondering when you might be free to come and resolve a problem for me," he replied smoothly.

"I'll be here in Swindon for the rest of this week. My office could have told you that." There was a hint of asperity in the voice.

"Of course. I'll make arrangements with them. Sorry to have troubled you." Cowley hung up, a frown creasing his already craggy features. He pressed the intercom and spoke to Betty.

"I need ARC again. Get me the managing director."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"It was Swindon. Definitely Swindon. Just look at the place!" Bodie glowered out of the car window, his flared nostrils and elegantly arched eyebrow conveying a depth of contempt too great for words. "If ever a place would benefit from a few bombs..."

"I'm telling you, it was Slough." Doyle was sticking to his guns. "It's Philip Larkin: 'Come friendly bombs and fall on _Slough'_."

"Well, that's only because he never saw Swindon. And it's Betjeman, you berk."

Doyle had long since discovered that his partner was more cultured than he liked to let on. Bodie was right about Swindon – it was a dump. And damn it, he was right about Betjeman too.

"Hold on." Bodie was abruptly serious. He adjusted the rear view mirror to give him a clearer view of the figure leaving ARC Defence. "That's our girl." By unspoken agreement, Doyle hopped out of the car to follow on foot while Bodie pulled smoothly out into the slow, early evening traffic.

When ARC's director had discovered that the woman copying his research data was not who she claimed to be, it had taken all Cowley's powers of persuasion to stop him charging into the computer room and having her arrested on the spot. Only the suggestion that she might already have removed some disks the previous day – and Cowley would bet his best single malt that she had done so – had scared him into allowing her to leave unhindered in order to find out where she went. Hence Doyle and Bodie's careful tailing.

A sudden rash of brake lights ahead brought the Capri to a halt. Bodie stuck his head out of the window, and saw a van that was clumsily executing a three-point-turn. "Come on," he snarled under his breath, as the woman who was not Holly McCabe disappeared from view into a street lined with shops, Doyle strolling casually behind her. As he reached the corner, a backward glance at the car and the merest nod indicated that he understood his partner might be a while catching up.

The van driver was making the biggest dog's dinner of the manoeuvre, not helped by the hooting of horns and the suggestions shouted, with varying degrees of politeness, by his fellow drivers. It was fully five minutes before Bodie was able to turn the Capri into the road by the dry cleaners where Doyle and their quarry had headed. There was no sign of either of them. Bodie snatched up the RT.

"Four five," he called. Silence. "Four five, this is three seven. Where are you?" He scanned the pavements, the shops, the pub where a few office workers had spilled outside to enjoy the weak evening sunshine. No sign. He spoke more forcefully. "Four five come in!"

The static hiss of the RT was his only reply.

* * *

><p>Doyle kept his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, seeming to look everywhere other than at the woman who was the sole focus of his attention. She turned right into a flight of concrete steps that led up between the buildings to an open walkway and some flats above the row of shops. Checking that she had rounded the first bend, he followed.<p>

* * *

><p>Kendal leant moodily over the brick balustrade, flicking cigarette ash onto passing pedestrians in the street two floors below. He wished Jacobs wouldn't make him leave the flat to smoke – it made him feel like a child, sent outside for being bad.<p>

He glanced around, half looking out for the girl with the briefcase. As she came into view at the corner, his mouth twisted with dislike. Smug bitch. She thought she was so much better than him, just because she knew about computers and disks and stuff. But he knew something she didn't – that when Jacobs sold the data to his contact, they had no intention of sharing the proceeds with her. So far, Kendal had thought of three different ways to kill her, and he was trying to decide which one to use when the time came.

She reached the foot of the steps and passed out of his line of sight. Leaning forward, Kendal dropped his still-burning cigarette end and was delighted when it landed in the basket of an old woman. He was about to go back into the flat when he noticed someone else below him looking up the stairs – a bloke with curly hair and a leather jacket. The man glanced both ways before heading up.

No-one who looked like that lived in these flats; that was why Jacobs had chosen them. There were a few junkies and squatters, and the tart up the far end, but most of them were empty. The one next to theirs had some broken-down scaffolding around it from a half-hearted attempt to make it habitable. Pulling a short length of pole free, Kendal positioned himself at the top of the stairs, and waited.

* * *

><p>Doyle leapt silently up the steps three at a time and had almost reached the turn at the top when what appeared to be a scaffolding pole swung into view at head height. He flung up an arm, partially deflecting the blow so that instead of smashing his skull it glanced off with a still-sickening crunch. Flailing for purchase Doyle fell back down the stairwell, instinctively tucking into a ball but feeling each step as he bounced off them. Coming to a halt at the half landing, all the breath knocked from him, Doyle's blurred vision made out the shape of the maniac with the scaffolding pole leaping down to finish the job.<p>

"Don't!" the woman called out. "We need to know who he is, what he knows." The boy with the pockmarked face glanced regretfully at his weapon, but contented himself with stamping on Doyle's guts with his heavy boot. Doyle heard the sound of the RT in his pocket being smashed into a number of expensive pieces. He just had time to consider that Cowley would probably have it deducted from his wages before the boot connected with his face and blackness overtook him.

* * *

><p>Bodie had been involved in more than a few frank exchanges of views with his boss, but today Cowley's ire had reached almost unprecedented heights. Outside the room that CI5 had commandeered in the local police station, the curious officers who had been loitering slunk quietly away, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire between these two hard cases. It was fair to say that the Chief was less than impressed that one of his supposedly top operatives had lost the girl, the disks and (least significantly, to Cowley's way of thinking) his partner, all because of a Transit driver's inability to find reverse.<p>

"We've got nothing now – nothing at all," Cowley snapped. "The only lead we had was the girl and you lost her. And I gave ARC my personal guarantee that nothing would happen to those disks."

"I could have another look in their computer room..."

"Ach, there's nothing there, you know that, man." Cowley threw his glasses impatiently down on the desk. Bodie was scowling mutinously, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a barely contained explosion of frustration in his eyes. "Get out of here. I don't care what you have to do. Find her. Find those disks."

"And Doyle?" Concern for his partner made Bodie's tone savage.

"Aye. You'd better find him too."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Jacobs was experiencing déjà vu. Kendal had dragged the unconscious man into the flat, and was now excitedly describing his cleverness in spotting the tail and re-enacting his victory in the subsequent skirmish. As he listened, Jacobs was strongly reminded of something else – something from long ago. He searched his mind for the memory.

Ah yes. His little sister's dog when he was a teenager, a yappy, irritating terrier that would adoringly present him with endless soggy tennis balls and small, decomposing animals. He recalled the deep satisfaction he had experienced on the day when, alone in the house, he had stuck his Swiss army knife between the dog's eyes and buried it behind the rockery. It was considerable consolation in the present moment that he would soon be applying a similar solution to Kendal.

Almost as irritating was the woman, Fawcett, stridently demanding to know what this meant for their plans.

"They're on to us, aren't they? He must have followed me all the way from ARC. We have to get out of here – now."

"They don't know about this place, though, do they?" Kendal argued. "He was on his own – if he'd had backup they wouldn't've just let him get his head kicked in. We're safe here."

"None the less, Miss Fawcett has a point." Jacob's cold, precise voice commanded complete attention. "We do not know the extent of their intelligence. Clearly it is not possible for her to return to ARC; and in any event, they have already furnished us with the bulk of what we need. Tomorrow I shall speak to my contact and negotiate a price for what we have."

"What about him?" Kendal rested his foot on the shoulder of the CI5 operative, his eyes glittering at the prospect of addressing this particular problem.

"For now, restrain him and put him with our other guest in the bathroom. It would be unnecessarily risky to move them at the moment. When it gets dark, we'll take them both on a short journey."

The colour drained from Fawcett's face, and she ran from the room. Moments later the sound of retching could be heard from the kitchen.

"I fear Miss Fawcett may not have the stomach for her chosen profession," Jacobs observed. "When she returns I will suggest to her that she allows you to drive her home." He eyed Kendal steadily. "Between ourselves, however, I think it would be better if she were not to reach her destination."

Jacobs allowed himself the ghost of a smile at his mental image of Kendal, wagging his tail in delight.

* * *

><p>Insistent messages from his body slowly dragged Ray Doyle towards consciousness. The most strident voice was the pain – he didn't want to think about that just yet, so he pushed it aside and considered instead the dull rumble of cramped discomfort, the aching need to stretch and relax his abused muscles. But there was another message too – softer than the others – barely a whisper. Yes, there it was again – something cool and soothing. He grabbed hold of that sensation like a drowning man grasping a rope and hauling himself hand-over-hand to safety.<p>

His eyes flickered open – as best they could, anyway – one appeared to be half-swollen shut and the other matted with something sticky and drying that he suspected was his own blood. He was lying awkwardly on his front, one side of his face pressed against gritty lino. What felt like plastic cable ties were cutting into his flesh at the wrists, knees and ankles. A low moan escaped him, and at once he felt fingers gently pressed to his lips. A girl's voice, barely above a whisper:

"Shh – if they hear us, they'll come in." The cool, soothing feeling resumed, and he realised that the girl was applying a damp cloth to his traumatised face. "Are you badly hurt?" she asked. Doyle didn't really want to consider this question, as it meant attending more closely to the pain that he was trying to ignore. But he gritted his teeth and took a quick inventory of his body. Aside from his face, there didn't seem to be any major damage; there was a dull throbbing in his side where doubtless there would be an RT-shaped bruise developing, but no broken bones.

"Nah – m'okay," he mumbled through lips that seemed ill-equipped for articulation. His hazy vision made out the shape of the girl, sitting on the floor, one arm twisted uncomfortably behind her. A metallic clank caused the pieces to snap into place. Of course – this was Holly, the real Holly – she'd been held here for two days now, and from the sound of it she was handcuffed to a radiator.

Summoning his strength he rolled onto his side, and then felt her supporting hand between his shoulder blades as he struggled to a sitting position. Soon he was propped beside her against the radiator as she gently began to wipe the blood from the other side of his face.

"What's your name?"

"Doyle. Ray."

"I'm Holly. But I kinda hope you know that. They said you're CI5?" Her tone was a mixture of hope and surprise. "One of Mr Cowley's boys? Does that mean the cavalry's following you?"

"I hope so, yeah," Doyle tried to sound optimistic but missed by some distance.

"At least someone's looking for us."

_Us_, he noted, not _me_ – "looking for _us_". He approved of this girl, of her quiet calm and her evident concern for his well-being as well as her own. But her next words made him groan inwardly.

"They're planning to kill us, aren't they?"

"It won't come to that," he replied quickly, trying to head off her descent into panic.

"I hope not," her tone reproached him gently. "But it's what they're planning, isn't it? They're not wearing masks. When all this is over they don't care if we can identify them – which means they either think we'll be dead, or they will." The merest tremor belied her light, conversational tone. "And they don't really strike me as the suicide bomber type. I mean, I'm not one to rush to judgment, but they seem to be nearer the 'petty thug' end of the spectrum, don't you think?"

His vision clearing, Doyle looked at Holly properly for the first time. This was no panicking girl – this was a brave and intelligent woman who had faced up to the terrifying reality that she found herself in and come to some rational conclusions.

Holly bit her lip, seeing in his face that he agreed with her logic, and so surrendering her last fragile hope that she'd misread the situation. She turned away, reaching above her head into the sink that was next to her radiator, dropping the bloodstained rag and awkwardly filling a chipped mug with water. Wordlessly she held it for him to drink, her eyes bright with tears that she would not allow to fall.

As he sipped gratefully, Doyle felt a hot surge of anger that these 'petty thugs' had the power to put this kind, blameless woman through such an ordeal. Wishing he could put an arm around her, all he could do was shuffle a little closer until their arms were touching. After a second's resistance, she laid her face on his shoulder.

Doyle leant his cheek against the top of her head, silently offering what scant reassurance he could. Her hair still smelt of shampoo, and he had a disorientating glimpse of another life, a life in which she laughed and showered and fixed computers, a life that might as well have been on another planet and yet had been hers until just a couple of days ago.

The door opened and Kendal swaggered into view.

"Aw, look at that. You got yourself a girlfriend. Did she kiss it better for you?"

Doyle regarded him silently. Irritated not to have provoked a response, Kendal stepped forward and kicked him savagely in the side. With a cry, Holly flung herself across Doyle, protecting his head with her free arm. Doyle tried to protest – this lunatic was just as likely to attack her as him – but with no breath left in his lungs it was hard to form the words.

"Oh, big man," sneered Kendal, "Hiding behind your girlfriend!"

"Big words from the wee jobbie who'll kick a guy that's tied up on the floor," Holly spat, her accent thickening with her anger. "I'm guessing you were bullied at school, Kendal. What was it? Stammering? Bed wetting? Or do you just have a really small penis?"

Predictably Kendal was on them again in a second, cuffing her heavily across the head and standing astride the two of them, pressing his crotch towards Holly's face as she struggled to push him away. "You wanna see how big it is?" he snarled.

The door banged open again and Jacobs stood framed there. Kendal froze. The older man jerked his head backwards and Kendal let go of Holly, although not without a final obscene caress, and stalked from the room.

Jacobs continued to stare at Holly and Doyle, as she sat back against the radiator with as much dignity as she could muster. Silently he came closer, checked the ties holding Doyle's knees and ankles, and then grabbed his hair to tip him sharply forward and make sure his hands were still bound. Holly rattled her handcuffs insolently, demonstrating that she, too, remained secured. Without a word Jacobs left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Holly let out a long-held breath, and Doyle turned to regard her.

"You okay?" he asked, and she nodded, eyes closed, recovering herself. He admired her courage, but her actions had been foolhardy at best and he needed her to keep her head. "I know it's difficult, but it's best just to ignore them."

"I know that." For the second time in their brief acquaintance, her tone reproached him for underestimating her. "I just figured that if I could get him to bring his groin within reach, I might be able to take these from his pocket." She held out her free hand. Cupped inside it were Kendal's wire cutters.

Chastened, Doyle closed his eyes just briefly, acknowledging her achievement. Then quickly he turned to present his bound wrists to her. She cut the plastic ties. Taking the tool he swiftly freed his legs, and hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. He did a rapid tour of the bathroom, scuffing quietly at the floor until he found some things he could use. A bent nail and a hair grip – not ideal, but with the wire cutters he could make it work. His fingers felt fat and clumsy from lack of circulation, but he applied himself to picking the lock on the handcuffs that held Holly to the radiator pipe.

Almost as soon as he'd begun, the sound of footsteps reached them from outside the door. Maybe Kendal had missed his cutters, or maybe he just wanted to continue baiting them. Doyle remained calm, focused on the task before him, and the handcuffs suddenly opened with a quiet click. He just had time to pull Holly to her feet and shove her behind him as he stationed himself beside the door.

Kendal walked in and had barely registered the space where his victims were supposed to be when the door smashed back into his face. As the boy reeled, Doyle stepped around in front of him, knowing he had to finish this fast as he was in no condition to tangle with this dangerous psychopath. He jammed the point of Kendal's cutters deep into his throat. More by luck than planning the tool found the carotid artery, and when Doyle pulled them out a jet of blood hit the far wall with explosive force. Kendal staggered, gasping, gargling, blood spurting from his neck, redecorating the room quite effectively and splattering Doyle and Holly copiously with its greasy warmth.

As the boy slumped to the floor, Doyle reached back for Holly's hand and stepped over Kendal's body out into the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

His darkest look and a flash of his ID were enough to frighten away the late-shift traffic warden as Bodie left the Capri on the double-yellows outside the dry cleaners. He stared down the long, straight road ahead of him, his eyebrows drawn down and his lips pressed tightly together.

Think, man. _Think_.

No more than five minutes had elapsed from the time that Doyle had tailed the girl around this corner to when Bodie followed in the car. Five minutes for his partner to vanish utterly. The nearest side turnings were some distance away – too far for them to have reached.

It had happened an hour ago, just before 6.00pm – some of the shops had still been open. Had they gone into one of them? Bodie dismissed the idea impatiently. Something had happened to Doyle – and there was no way he went down without a fight. If they'd gone into a shop someone would have seen them, reported the disturbance. With a last admonitory glare at the hovering traffic warden, Bodie set off down the road, every sense on high alert.

After about fifty yards he saw the concrete steps, leading up a narrow space between two shops. Bodie glanced upwards, saw the flats built two stories above him, the open walkway that ran in front of them. He took the steps two at a time, hopping over a short length of scaffolding pole abandoned on the half-landing. Part way up the next flight, he suddenly stopped. He'd seen something. Something familiar – so familiar, in fact, that he'd immediately dismissed it. He turned slowly, his eyes raking every inch of the bare brickwork, the concrete, the paint-peeled metal handrail – what could he possibly have seen?

Back on the half-landing, litter had clustered in the corners – dead leaves mingled with crisp packets. He stirred it with the toe of his smart Italian loafer, and there it was – just a bit of grey plastic casing, a moulded right-angle that had clearly broken off something. Bodie picked it up and examined it, fishing his RT out of his pocket and holding them side by side.

_Snap_.

Doyle had been here – and whatever happened on this stairwell had smashed his RT. Crouching down, Bodie's sharp eyes combed the landing for any further clues, taking in the rubbish, the flecks of mica in the concrete, the incongruous scaffolding pole with a smear of rust-coloured paint on one end.

No. Not paint. Blood.

"Three seven to base," he barked into his RT, "I need a forensic team here _now_." He gave them his location as he trotted back down the stairs onto the pavement, spotted the traffic warden and urgently beckoned him over. "This is a crime scene. Forensics are on their way – stand there and wait for them. No-one goes up here apart from them. Got that?"

The man looked startled by this sudden alteration in his duties, but nodded and stationed himself at the foot of the stairs. Bodie headed back upwards, trying not to disturb anything, careful not to brush against the handrail. As he passed the half-landing again he had a fleeting and unwelcome image of that heavy metal pole being used in anger on his partner's body. Shaking his head impatiently he dismissed the thought as he reached the top and emerged onto the walkway.

In front of him was a brick balustrade overlooking the road he had just left; stretching away on either side were the flats, which had all seen better days. Many of the windows were boarded up; even the graffiti was faded and tired. Eyes narrowed, Bodie looked left and right, thinking hard.

Had the girl realised that she was being followed? Bodie promised himself he'd berate Doyle for that if – _when_ – he got the chance. But she was slight, petite – no more than five foot three. Even with a scaffolding pole and the element of surprise there was no way she'd taken Doyle out on her own. He leaned forward over the balustrade, saw the top of the traffic warden's cap below. Maybe someone had been standing here, watching out for her, seen Doyle follow her up the stairs. If so, they must be based nearby – presumably in one of these flats.

That was far too many 'if's and 'maybe's for his liking, but it was the best he had. Which way first, right or left? He looked along the walkway, studying the flats. One bore the remnants of some scaffolding. Left, then.

* * *

><p>Doyle stood in the hallway outside the bathroom, listening intently. Ahead of him, stairs stretched invitingly downwards, but the bare and uneven floorboards did not bode well for a quiet descent. The other man – Jacobs, Holly said he called himself – had to be on the floor below; Kendal had died mercifully quietly but if anyone had been upstairs they would undoubtedly have heard the scuffle. Doyle glanced back at the blood-soaked girl, saw the gibbering chaos in her eyes that she was just managing to keep in check. She nodded, and together they crept forward.<p>

The first stair took his weight without a sound, and the second. He placed his feet carefully, trying to choose spots that looked properly nailed down, aware of Holly marking his footsteps behind him. The fourth tread creaked a little, and he froze, wondering if they should retreat: the stairwell was dead straight and they were sitting ducks if anyone armed appeared at the bottom. No sounds of movement reached him so he resumed the descent, reaching the half-way point, Kendal's wire cutters held out in front of him like a talisman.

"May I help you with something?" Jacobs enquired politely, stepping into view at the foot of the stairs, a silenced automatic held steadily in his hand. "It's most discourteous of you to leave without saying goodbye. In fact," he raised the gun, pointing it directly at Doyle's head, "I really don't think I can tolerate such ill manners."

With all his strength Doyle threw the wire cutters at Jacobs and flung himself backwards, trying to cover Holly as they scrambled back up the stairs. A bullet buried itself in the plaster inches from his ear and he knew the next one would find its mark.

An almighty crash from below him was followed by three gunshots in under a second. Jacobs, a look of mild surprise on his face, was sliding down the wall leaving a long, red streak on the wallpaper. A smart, Italian loafer kicked the automatic away, and Bodie appeared, gun still held in both hands in front of him. He looked up the stairwell and his eyes widened in shock at the state of his partner.

Doyle's teeth showed whitely as he grinned from behind a bloody mask. "Don't panic, sunshine. Hardly any of this is mine..."

Bodie's shoulders sagged just slightly in relief.

"I think we'd better hose you two down before we go anywhere – there's a traffic warden downstairs who's of a very sensitive disposition."

* * *

><p>"I'll pass that on, Alpha-1. Three seven out." As Doyle and Holly emerged from the kitchen, looking marginally less like extras from the Hammer House of Gore, Bodie pocketed his RT and regarded them with the glint of devilment back in his eye.<p>

"Warm messages of concern from the boss?" Doyle enquired, with the merest suggestion of irony.

"Absolutely. Under the circumstances, he said he won't have you billed for a new RT. And Holly – he'd like to know if you're free tomorrow to look at that computer problem...?"

- The End - 


End file.
